WINNIPEG DOWNS from Three Blocks West of Wonderland

Journal, poems, , , , ,

Ekstasis Editions, 2009

I’m finally coming up for air after 10 manic days of mania, albeit with a skewered neck and pain radiating up the entire left side of my skull. Occasionally it will roost in my temple or behind my ear. Well it’s true that the only out is through so here I sit, too messed up to focus or write so will blog another day and in the meantime share a poem from the new book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland.

WINNIPEG DOWNS

Games of chance. Sleight of hand. Games invented
to wash us out of her lush, chestnut hair,
setting little sister and me off to stoop and scoop
discarded tickets. Plucky as yard hens. Two bags
full. Staggered, not by one-too-many beers
but a winning wager, she whooped I can buy
you girls supper! Dragged around like carrion
in a diesel-rank yellow Beetle, we fought

to hide in the nausea-inducing verboten slot
where balled-up fists could not reach.
Dutifully she ordered a Mama burger
though professing to prefer the Teen. Two bites. I bet
she had no appetite after six months of whiplash prescription.
Her lumpy thumbs hefted fivers, entering the weekly lottery,
blowing crumbs of crud off a scratch & win ticket between pulls
on a machine-rolled fag, corduroy car coat pockmarked
with cigarette burns. Bingo-lottery-horse-and card-playing loser.

My hand. A mother rather like that species
of turtle that leaves the clutch in a lurch to hatch,
scuttling down to the tavern, I mean, ocean. To be fair,
she always returned to pour salt on our sugar
sandwiches or fry up some baloney. Midnight shuffle
back to our shack behind the white fence of birch
to catch me in the hook of her hand, give me something
to cry about. On special occasions
her bad nerves, moods, might recede.
Christmas especially mollified her.

A waitress—blinded by Chinese restaurant-light
brutal as the belly of an illuminated submarine—
she did not see us, our saucer eyes, our brightness,
so busy she was rubbing lucky charms
and rusty magic lamps. Telling stories. Lying
in bed reading True Confessions, liking her coffee crisp.

She can rest in her La-Z Boy, now that the little buggers
are grown. Against all odds.
Now that she’s toothless, painless and respectable
except for the plethora of aces up her sleeve.
In no position to coerce, she cajoles
us into playing gin rummy. Crib. I have to laugh,
the way she groans when dealt the joker,
as if she knows him intimately.

Planning book promotion-Lieben Artist Colony

Journal,

I’m still fighting the flu! I’m trying to be good, rest as much as possible and pace myself; have to, go with the flow, work when I have a modicum of energy.

Three Blocks West of Wonderland is at the printer and I should have copies in hand in a matter of days! Ekstasis Editions has been struggling mightily to hold their press together, due to brutal funding cuts. This book is quite a feat, for them, and me, it seems. It’s hard to accept that it’s taken so long to get another collection of poetry into print. I will say it again; I think I would go nuts if I didn’t work in other media. I’ve produced CDs Surfing Season and Princess Nut and videopoems Dying for the Pleasure and Purple Lipstick, independently, for the most part. In any case, I will be doing most of the book promotion myself. I plan on a big launch in early spring, here on Bowen Island and in Vancouver. I’m hoping to go to Toronto for the League of Canadian Poets AGM/conference as part of a book tour. Ekstasis is sending it in for Pat Lowther and BC Book Prizes nominations.

Check out a lovely new Bowen Island literary website devoted to the historic site, Lieben, that inspired many of Canada’s most illustrious writers and artists including Earle Birney, Dorothy Livesay and Malcolm Lowry. They recently put out a call for submissions and are dedicated to helping Bowen Island writers and artists by providing an electronic artist’s colony.

Okay, it’s nearly 2 AM. I’m going to hit the hay. G’night.

On the eve of my *new* book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland

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Crazy week! Or two. Fighting a cold and losing, succumbing to aches, pains, fatigue, trying to ignore H1N1 fear mongering, largely by the press and government. I was just discussing it with my niece and she said a friend was in panic mode and saying, “Did you hear about the healthy young man slayed by it?” Niece saw his picture and said he must have weighed 400 pounds. Apparently obesity is a complicating factor.

I don’t know, my GP says everyone should get vaccinated, to reduce the number of carriers, my naturopath says you have to eat a lot of dirt before you die, it’s natural and I swing back and forth. Naturally. I ignored previous plagues, even in Romania, the rumored origin of bird flu and never worried. People die of seasonal flu every year. This year’s variety, the swine flu is getting a lot of press and a bit harder to dismiss.

I’ve been spending quite a lot of time proofing the galleys for my new collection of verse, Three Blocks West of Wonderland that I told new FB friend Timothy Taylor was completed over a year ago. My still unpublished novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter is nearly as old as my dog and her chin is covered with white hair these days. In the meantime, Continue reading →

The Proper Tool from “Three Blocks West of Wonderland”

poems, , ,

Heading to the printers soon. Woo hoo!

The Proper Tool

I’m raring. I’m keen. Keen on the job, keen on green

suede, pea soup green suede. Round mountains

of breast meat. The taste of breadfruit. I’m fond

of blue fin, the Nepali coast. On off days I mourn

road kill, vanishing tooth fairies, yell above the wind

in ironwood trees or run over wild boars. I try to decipher

your posture, sagging down pipe. Was it something I said?

Did I wing a wrench into the works of your Stoly-propelled,

part-time life of letters? Did my leaky duck plump

body mangle your shift,

the entire working class hero period?

You don’t know your Gatsbys

from your Kowalskis, pub-crawling from slumming.

I buy jade, Siberian tiger’s eye. Thyme

infused bath bombs. Glass beads. Silk and suede,

green suede, so much easier to stroke than you.

Go saw yourself in half. Go nail

it in, back against the wall. Paint yourself, or it,

black. Into a corner. Weld your metal. Meld

the two halves of your dark side. Screw yourself.

Gather the loose ones. Punch yourself out.

Brendan Mullen R.I.P. -One Life is not enough!

Journal, , , ,

Another friend dead! I’m starting to feel this race against time, hot against the back of my neck. In fact, it’s getting personal! Thusly, I’m crankin’ the tunes, drinking wodka, looking over my shoulder.

One of my dear LA friends, Brendan Mullen, with whom I exchanged FB messages only a few days ago has expired after suffering a massive stroke. I didn’t think of him as *old.* Brendan was working on a new book, had asked me to nail down the year of a Zellots poster from a show at the John Anson Ford Theatre we played with Faith No More and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I said, sure Brendan, I’ll get back to you, no problem. We always assume there is time, a next time.

To say that Brendan was a vital part of the west coast punk rock scene-a catalyst-as founder of the Masque in Los Angeles is an understatement. He was an alchemist, who despite the ephemeral nature of the performing arts routinely employed his intuition, power and skills to conjure up radical, earth shaking events, and thus history.

He continued propelling all that was raw and edgewise. In the beginning he provided a vital venue to bands like X, the Germs, the Go-Gos etc, etc, but post-punk he mixed it up royally as a consummate DJ and programmer with astute and eclectic musical tastes Continue reading →

Fantastic fungi, mortality, dream logic

Journal

I came across some fantastic fungi in the forest while walking the dogs. They resemble chocolate leather buttons! I know they’re not psilocybin, doubt they’re edible and since they’re not in my field guide, on the ground they shall remain.

I found a toad residing in the hot tub cover and two yolks in one egg this morning. We get our cackle berries from the local butcher, Alderwood Farms just down the road and they are always so lovely and nearly as fresh as having your own chicken coop. SamIAm just caught and devoured a dragonfly! He’s faster than he looks.

I’ve been in a real funk since returning from Los Angeles, feel like jumping out a window or going to live in the woods. I’ve said it before, I am always so happy to see everyone down there but it makes me nostalgic, melancholy even, haunting my old stomping grounds. You are forced to face your mortality when a friend dies. I was discussing it with Gretl, Peter’s sister. At 40, she said Continue reading →

Post-Peter memorial, discombobulated, sad

Journal,

Is it any wonder? I can’t focus, keep playing around with FB and email, skirting around the huge job I need to get done, curating the Visible Verse 09 screening.

I’m drained, keep listening to songs Peter and I wrote and sang together, going over it in my mind, all the things we *could* have done, the great potential we had, the promise, how we threw it all away. Well, I am apparently still trying to come to terms with it, never had to face it until losing him, our shared past. And I just plain old miss him! Hate the void…

Wednesday, Sept. 30

Lunch before I leave for the airport, Reuben sandwich in Beechwood Canyon with Teresa, right under the Hollywood sign. Odd how the fabled Hollywood came to be such a significant part of my life, moving here so young, playing in bands, hanging out with Hollywood punks. Like most of the rest of my life, I didn’t plan it. I’m no movie-eyed starlet. Certainly I arrived with ambitions but it just sort of happened, found myself in a band with Brad Kent who had played in San Francisco’s Avengers and had connections in LA, namely our drummer Karla Mad Dog of the Controllers.

Robyn Westcott, Byron and Maritza came by the hotel last night and we had a lovely visit. Robyn and I commiserated over those who were instrumental in Peter’s murder, those whose names make me Continue reading →

Hanging with my Cali girls, the Ex-Girlfriends Club, gecko in the bathroom

Journal,

Been battling insomnia, a vicious circle. The more I worry that I won’t sleep, the harder it is to drop off. I’m up and down for hours, anxiously peeing, assuaging the turmoil in my gut in vain. I retired early, right after dinner at Yamashiro with some of Gretl’s friends, too tired to party hearty. I shouldn’t eat so late either but the two computer programmers got lost in Hollywood. Geeks said Gretl-so I’m kind of surprised they didn’t have a GPS. Josef helped develop the technology and he only recently conceded to buying one. What’s that about?

Preparing today for my performance in Pasadena, wondering if anyone will show up. Even a poet’s friends don’t want to attend a poetry reading! I extend an invitation and they get a panicked look on their faces, revealing they’d rather be anywhere else. After we are to drive back to the hotel and cab it over to Boardner’s for Peter’s memorial and it will be interesting to see who shows up there.

Liza, one of Peter’s ex-girlfriends came over with her sister yesterday. A lovely young redhead from South Carolina, replete with endearing accent. Interesting to hear of their life together, that period. Things felt a little awkward but I believe we all tried to Continue reading →

Still missing Peter, one year later

Journal,

Peter’s birthday. He would have turned 54 if he hadn’t been taken out by a trigger happy *friend.* I’m preparing to go to LA to attend a memorial, meeting up with his sister Gretl. I am going be performing poems from my new book, Three Blocks West Of Wonderland, dedicated to his memory.

Sucks. Still sucks after a year. Still can’t believe he’s gone, haven’t entirely assimilated it or been able to write about it. It took many years before I could write about my mother after she died in 1992.

Dreamed I was ambling down the road on a hose! Like riding a snake. If I yarded the thing just right, it stayed up high, rigid enough to keep me aloft. Surely it was due to riding the horse the other day, learning to use the reigns. Lovely and bizarre dream, like the best of them. I don’t remember my dreams much anymore, am happy when I do.

Trying to tie up what seems like a million loose ends before I leave. Junior is digitizing some old cassettes, recordings of the band Peter and I had with Jon Huck and John MacAdams a long time ago. Josef transferred the footage we shot but the editing software keeps crashing. Need to get it rendered and to Roderick so he can start working on it. I have to view it though before I leave in case there is anything that needs to be re-shot, though at this rate, I am running out of time.

My first time! (On a horse) AURAL Heather video shoot

Journal, ,

I did it! I rode a horse! A stallion no less! A black stallion! For the first time in my life. I think. I told Josef that I vaguely remember trying to get on a horse once, long ago, when I was a girl and maybe I got scared or the horse spooked or something. It’s strange. I’m obsessed with the creatures. I told Laura Doyle, consummate horse woman and fellow artist, who gave me my first riding lesson today, that I dream about them, write about them, am always completely in awe of their grace, power and beauty.

I’m so lucky to have met her. Laura made the experience so wonderful, said I did well. I even got up to a trot! So naturally I’m inspired, want to learn to ride, want my own horse! Hers, a handsome black Friesen, named Orion. The Friesen is a “uniquely kind breed with loads of willingness, stunning to watch as they show their beauty in movement.” *sigh* I think I’m in love. I was nervous, but not scared. I have been around horses most of my life. I went to school in Cloverdale, many of my girlfriends equestrians and I even had a job watering and feeding a small herd of Palominos.

Orion was great, likes to be scratched at the base of his neck. Very affectionate, mellow. I am good with animals, dogs especially, tried to pretend, or approach him like a big dog. 1000-pound dog! I looked over at one point to see one of the mares on her back, rolling around in the dirt, just like Sam loves to do.

Great day! It even stopped raining and we shot out in the pasture and willows. It couldn’t have turned out better. A great day despite starting off in a quandary about what to wear. I wanted to spoof Lady Godiva and had the costume all worked out—made a hair piece, bought a body stocking— but Continue reading →